


Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture!

by bauble



Series: NORDA [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 14:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20875556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written forInception Bingo.   The prompt:erotic torture





	Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture!

"You spent three weeks obsessing over the carpet in a dream and yet can't be arsed to buy chairs so we don't have to eat dinner on the floor," Eames says.

"In Japan, eating on the floor is the norm," Arthur replies as he flips through the mail. Bills, bills, more bills.

"Yes, on immaculately clean tatami mats, not on dusty hardwood," Eames replies. "You've owned this place, if not lived here, for over six years and it looks like you moved in yesterday."

"Well—" Arthur glances around his living room and kitchen, barren but for the coffee table and a single floor lamp. Maybe Eames has a point. "It's minimalist?"

"Minimalism is a design choice," Eames says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is a serial killer's safehouse."

Arthur barks out a surprised laugh. "Okay, fine, I hear you. Why don't you buy some furniture, then?"

"Are you authorizing me to make interior décor decisions?" Eames' eyebrows almost meet his hairline. It occurs to Arthur that even though Eames has been living in the apartment since Arthur recruited him into NORDA, he hasn't moved much into the place aside from his clothing and minor personal effects.

"Yeah, get whatever you want," Arthur says. "You're what makes it feel like home to me, anyway."

"My sweet darling." Eames walks over to press a kiss to Arthur's cheek. "Of course I won't be purchasing furniture myself. I'm hiring a decorator."

"Of course," Arthur replies dryly; as if Eames would ever pass up the chance to spend money. "You want me to give you Lia's contact info? I thought she did a good job with NORDA's office."

"God no," Eames shudders. "No, no. The last thing I want our home to resemble is the office."

Arthur shrugs. "Okay, wasn't that guy we slept with last month an interior designer? What about him?"

"Simply because his shapely arse is qualified to take my cock doesn't mean I'm about to entrust my home to him." There's a suspicious gleam in Eames' eye. "Actually, I already have someone in mind."

Arthur sighs internally. He should have guessed this was a set up all along.

* * * * *

When Arthur sees the interior designer's invoice, he nearly keels over. "Is our apartment going to be lined with gold and covered in diamonds?"

"We have to purchase furniture, curtains, rugs, and something for the walls besides that sad little pamphlet about recycling you taped next to the light switch," Eames replies, unperturbed.

"Proper recycling and energy conservation are keys to a sustainable future," Arthur says. "And what do we need rugs for? They'll cover up the hardwood floors."

"Rugs pull a room together aesthetically," Eames says, a bit primly. "They also help define the color theme and mood for a space."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, squinting at Eames' laptop screen. "And these are…?"

"Photos of possible seating options," Eames replies. "Any preferences?"

They're all enormous chairs, with fussy detailing and heavy upholstery. More importantly: hideous. "Uh," Arthur says, praying that Eames isn't seriously considering them for the apartment. "I don't think these are really my jam."

"No?" Eames looks—maybe—disappointed, but closes out the window. "A lighter wood finish, perhaps?"

"Yeah, maybe," Arthur says, not sure that's the problem.

"Are you sure you don't want to meet with the designer? Suki is really quite excellent and would appreciate your input."

"Can't. Landed a new client. Some hedge-fund guy that wants the mock-up for a ten hour dream by the end of the month. I'm going to be practically living at the office until that's done."

"What does he want?"

"That's the thing—he's given me no parameters. Wants the best I can create, a one of a kind experience custom made for him."

"With no direction whatsoever?" Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur's nod. "What is he expecting?"

"He says he wants something he can't experience in reality."

"There are many things one can experience only in dreams, but that doesn't mean I'd pay for those things."

"It's going to be fine," Arthur says with a confidence he almost feels. "He gave me carte blanche to do whatever I think best."

"Alright," Eames says. "And you still have no opinions whatsoever that you'd like me to convey to Suki?"

Arthur leans forward to kiss Eames lightly on the lips. "I love your style, baby. I'm sure I'll love what you pick out."

* * * * *

Arthur's routine is this: he wakes up every day at 6AM for a run. The neighborhood they live in is nice, a mix of residential and business space, not too many neighbors to keep tabs on. He has six carefully plotted routes that he alternates taking throughout the week. It helps keeps things fresh and provides an opportunity for him to see if anything seems out of the ordinary, or if any enemies might be in town, past or present.

After he finishes his run, he returns to give Eames a good morning blowjob, fucks him afterwards. If Arthur doesn't have an early meeting, they draw it out, savor it. If they're pressed for time, Arthur fucks Eames quick and efficient, comes in a few short snaps of his hips. Afterwards, they shower together and talk about plans for the day.

Arthur goes to the office almost every morning, though now that the business is doing a little better, Eames has been lobbying for Saturdays off. Arthur's agreed to give it a month-long trial, anxious about being away (logically he knows he has everything he needs to work remotely).

Arthur likes going in, likes the structure it gives his days, but Eames became a criminal partly to avoid feeling trapped in an office. So Eames usually works relentlessly half the week—two days in the office, two days from home—and then gives himself three days to do whatever he wants, whether that's sleep, his various side hustles, or, recently, all this home renovation stuff. Last year, Arthur suggested Eames take up cooking as a hobby (hoping that one day he might come home to a meal that didn't begin its life as a frozen entrée) but that hasn't caught on yet. Sadly.

Arthur tries to make it back for dinner every evening, but only succeeds about half the time. Eames never seems particularly bothered by it, usually sends Arthur a text around 7PM inquiring about whether he should be put Arthur's portion of the takeout in the fridge. Arthur tries not to stay out too late, but sometimes gets lost in work and comes home after Eames has already gone to sleep. If there's a looming deadline and an early meeting the next day, Arthur may opt to stay all night at the office (he has a fold-out couch and several changes of clothing).

Eames doesn't complain, merely welcomes Arthur back whenever he does come off his work bender. In fact, it's Arthur who finds himself missing Eames after a day or two away, inventing excuses to call Eames simply to hear his voice. Arthur's the one that can't get enough cuddling when he finally returns, doesn't want to let Eames leave the bed for anything short of a bathroom emergency.

The weirdest thing is, after three and a half years, Arthur is still smitten with Eames. Arthur's never had a relationship that lasted this long before, and never one as happy and easy as this. They argue sometimes, but on the whole, things are smooth. Harmonious, even.

Arthur's waiting for the new car smell to wear off any day now. To react with detached boredom when Eames smiles, to feel familiarity drift into contempt, to find conversation predictable and stale. But Eames is ever changing, always throwing himself into new hobbies, renewing interest in longtime pursuits like painting, currency forgery, and rare book collecting.

If anything, Eames is the one more likely to grow bored. After all, Arthur's entire life has narrowed down to NORDA.

* * * * *

Arthur spends three days breathing and eating research about the client. Davos has been in the public eye for over fifteen years, which means there's a ton of press to wade through in addition to normal background checks. Davos is also a controversial figure, having been sued numerous times for varying reasons (including unpaid bills). He's alienated plenty of people on the way to amassing billions of dollars.

The tricky thing with people like Davos is that he can already buy access to anyone or anything he desires. The normal luxuries that might sate most clients—food, incredible landscapes, flawlessly beautiful people—won't suffice for someone who has a private jet on call, a harem in every major city.

So Arthur designs a trip to space: complete with a shuttle launch, a moon walk, and opportunity to plant a flag. It's inspired, if he does say so himself. Visiting another celestial body is something only a handful of astronauts have ever experienced--and something all Davos' money still can't buy yet.

Unfortunately, it requires intense research to achieve verisimilitude: viewing endless videos, a weekend spent touring a NASA base, and a trip on the zero gravity simulator nicknamed the vomit comet—for good reason, as it turns out.

Arthur spends three weeks planning, plotting, and working. Most of it's done in the office, but he also takes several trips around the country to study the interior of space shuttles, to experience weightlessness, to learn more highly technical cosmonautical information. Through it all, he barely has time to eat, sleep, and kiss Eames goodnight.

Davos wants a preliminary model before the end of the month and he's running out of days.

* * * * *

After a second decidedly unpleasant trip on the vomit comet, Arthur returns to an apartment covered in tasseled rugs, carpetbag like curtains, and humongous furniture. There's unfamiliar art on the walls, shelves full of knick knacks, and curios strewn across every surface.

"Welcome home, darling," Eames says, emerging from the kitchen and dispelling Arthur's faint hope that he'd wandered into the wrong apartment. "Are you staying for the evening or heading straight to the office? I can order dinner."

"Hi, baby," Arthur says, dropping his bag to the floor. "Dessert first."

They get off once, quick, and then again, more slowly. Eames smells and tastes like home, even if the rest of the apartment doesn't.

"Suki's completed the furniture order for the bedroom," Eames says, tugging Arthur's arms more comfortably across his chest when they're lying together in bed. "I held off on moving it in since I didn't want you to come back to a state of chaos."

"We're keeping the bed, right?" Arthur says, eyeing the baroque monstrosities Eames calls furniture in the living room. 

Eames pauses. "This particular bed?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it."

"It doesn't quite—go with the rest of the décor."

"I like it," Arthur says, flatly, because he does. It was the first piece of furniture he bought for this apartment and he spent a good amount on both the frame—sleek, dark wood—and the mattress.

"Ah," Eames says. "I'd assumed we were redoing the entire apartment as a blank slate, but I'm sure Suki can make a few tweaks."

"We?" Arthur repeats. "I wasn't aware we were doing anything about the bedroom at all."

"But of course." Eames sounds a little impatient. "It's an empty room with plastic blinds, and a makeshift nightstand made up of a pile of your books with a lamp on it. I've been storing my socks and underwear in a suitcase for over three years because there are no other places for them to be put."

Arthur rolls over onto his back, abruptly feeling too hot and sweaty to want to spoon anymore. "Okay, but it's not going to be like the living room, is it?"

"Do you not care for the living room?" Eames asks, and there's an edge in his voice.

"It's—" Through the open door, Arthur can see the straight back of what looks like the least comfortable chair in existence. "It's not what I expected."

"You told me to do what I wanted. That you trusted my taste."

"Yeah, well. I thought—" Arthur clamps his mouth shut.

"You hate it."

Arthur struggles to find a tactful way to put his feelings. "I think it's—a lot."

"Yes, well, what did you expect?" Eames snaps. "I have a wholly bloody house in Mombasa and now I'm compressed into this absurd shoebox of a flat."

Arthur's throat constricts. "I thought you were going to sell that house."

"I was, but then I'd have to hire people to move my things into storage, not to mention find a buyer, and overall it didn't make financial sense." Eames exhales gustily. "You're the one always harping on about fiscal responsibility, aren't you?"

Arthur rests his palms over his heart, tries to take comfort in the recurring beat. "Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Mombasa," Arthur clarifies. "Your house. Living—" he can't quite bring himself to say 'alone.'

"I do miss how cheap everything was there." Eames sounds wistful. "And the food."

The doorbell rings and Arthur gets up, thankful for the reprieve. "Must be the delivery."

Arthur pulls cartons out of the bag—beef teriyaki from his favorite place—and stares at the decorated living room. He recognizes some of the pieces, now. A vase from Mombasa, a bizarre hunting painting from Eames' family estate in Wales. Eames has always had a penchant for the eclectic, but in combination the whole place is strongly reminiscent of a pawn shop. An insanely expensive pawnshop.

Arthur takes a seat at the dining table, which features an elaborate centerpiece and linens, as well as a statue that resembles a gnarled old man. As nice as it is to finally have a table, he feels like he's eating inside a stuffy restaurant rather than his own home.

"How's the teriyaki?" Eames asks, squeezing Arthur's shoulder as he sits down beside him.

"Delicious as always. Thanks for ordering it, baby," Arthur says, some of his irritation over the apartment fading. It's replaced by gratitude--he's damn lucky to have Eames in his life—and something less pleasant. Something that makes him feel a little queasy, a faint and unnamable fear.

"The client presentation is tomorrow, isn't it?" Eames asks around a mouthful of shrimp tempura.

"Yeah, I gotta go back in to put in the finishing touches." Arthur says slowly, as an idea comes to him. "If all goes well, I'll be more or less living in the office the rest of this week. I was thinking we could try something since, you know, I won't be around."

"Try...?"

"That thing we talked about last month that you've been wanting."

Eames sits back. "You know I'm always keen on sexual adventures, but are you sure this is the right time? I don't want to distract you."

"That's what makes this the perfect time," Arthur says, suddenly afraid Eames might say no. "It's a way we can still be—close—even when I'm at the office."

Eames studies Arthur for a long moment. "Alright."

Arthur smiles, relaxes. "Okay. I was thinking we could do it over a few days."

"Three days. We ramp up, start slow." Eames' voice drops an octave as he puts a possessive hand on the back of Arthur's neck. "I look forward to hearing you come for me."

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up the next morning at six AM, goes for his morning run, and blows Eames. They don't fuck after, though.

Eames instructs Arthur to jerk himself off, slowly. Eames watches, eyes dark as Arthur strokes himself, eager and on edge. He makes Arthur draw it out, though, until Arthur's smearing precome all over himself, balls tense and unused to being made to wait this long. 

When Eames finally allows him to come, Arthur shudders and ejaculates all over Eames' spent cock. After being on edge for what feels like the entire past month, release is fucking incredible.

"You were perfect," Eames murmurs as he leads Arthur to the shower, washes him off. "You'll do this again for me later today. After you're done, send me a photo of your come and your cock."

Arthur nods, reveling in Eames' attention. There's a pleasant shiver of anticipation at the idea of finding a free moment to lock himself in the office. In between appointments, maybe, or before he heads home for the day, so he can send a text to whet Eames' appetite.

* * * * *

Then the meeting with Davos happens.

Rather than being inspired by the prospect of space travel, Davos hates it. Hates the idea of going to the moon, of space suits, and being an astronaut. He alternates between boredom and irritation, curtly cutting off Arthur's pitch and declining even a five minute demo. He wants a new idea, has no suggestions for what that might be (isn't that what he's paying Arthur for?)

Arthur retains his composure until he makes it to his office. He locks the door, sits down, and lets his forehead hit the desk. There goes a month of work. And now he needs to come up a something new by the end of the week or Davos will back out and probably badmouth NORDA to every rich asshole he knows.

"Fuck," Arthur says as he raises his head and drops it down again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

What the hell does he do now? His previous list of ideas included: deep sea exploration, mazes and paradoxes, and meeting the goddamn Easter bunny. But given Davos' apparently hatred of nature and wonder, none sound promising.

A part of Arthur wants to call Eames to hear his voice, his counsel; he would have ideas. But Eames had reservations about taking Davos on as a client from the start, and an equal part of Arthur doesn't want to admit that Eames was right (as always). Petty, but there it is.

Arthur opts for a third option of hiding and feeling sorry for himself. He gives himself an hour to wallow before getting back to work. Administrative business unrelated to Davos which still needs to be handled even if Arthur is having one of the most crushing days of his life.

Around six, he remembers Eames' assignment for him and groans; the last thing he feels like doing is masturbating.

Arthur checks to make sure everyone has left for the day and locks himself in his office. He pulls up some porn to get in the mood: two burly men grunting as they go at it. He clicks aimlessly through the different categories of porn on Gaytube—massage, threesome, gangbang—and eventually plays a clip of a bear deepthroating a twink as background noise.

Arthur had been initially reluctant to put any personally identifying information on his cell, much less photos, even after settling down for NORDA. Years of paranoid habit and all that. But he'd caved shortly after the first time Eames sexted him with a photo attached. Now he has a truly impressive gallery of Eames in various states of undress, not to mention some rather risqué videos of them together.

He brings up a photo of Eames' ass first, swipes through to a lovely angle of his balls, and admires one especially nice shot of Eames fingering himself.

Arthur takes a minute to imagine it as he works his own cock: Eames spread over the desk, naked and begging for Arthur to put his cock inside—

Arthur orgasms, fumbling his phone out of the line of fire barely in time.

He snaps a photo of his come streaked hand wrapped loosely around his cock and forwards it to Eames.

The response is gratifyingly rapid, phone lighting up with an incoming call which displays a rare image of Eames smiling—his real one, with crinkled eyes and crooked teeth on full display. Eames hates that photo because he thinks it's terribly unflattering, but hasn't pressed Arthur to delete it. Almost seems pleased that Arthur still has it.

"Hey," Arthur says as he wipes himself down.

"You are utterly gorgeous, do you know that? Will you be home soon?"

"Might as well," Arthur says, despondent. "Davos hated the space idea. I need a new build by the end of the week."

"Darling, I'm sorry," Eames' voice curls around Arthur like a warm blanket. "I know how hard you worked on that dream." 

"Yeah," Arthur sighs. "Maybe I can repackage the idea and pitch it to some other client in the future. Get some use out of all the zero-G barfing I did."

"I personally would love to give your trip to the moon a try," Eames sounds sincere. "I can be your first guinea pig."

"Yeah?" Arthur feels his mood beginning to lift. "Really?"

"It sounds incredible," Eames says. "Come home and eat. We can drum up new ideas for Davos together."

So Arthur does. He eats beef teriyaki from his favorite place, takes refuge in Eames' arms. It doesn't erase the shittiness of the day, but it helps.

* * * * *

The next morning, Arthur scrapes himself out of bed, goes for a run, sucks Eames awake, and jerks himself off. Eames ushers Arthur into the shower and even offers to accompany him into the office.

"Suki's going to do the bathroom today, isn't she?" Arthur says. "Don't reschedule. I'm okay, I got this."

"Darling—"

"No, it's cool, I'm serious." Arthur puts a finger over Eames' lips to stop further protests. "Just tell me how many more times you want me to come before I get home."

Eames gives him that long, searching look again. "Three times. And I'd like two of those to be consecutive."

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Okay."

* * * * *

The hours fly by in a haze of coffee and file folders. Arthur reviews every piece of research, his notes—all in search of clues for something that would blow Davos' mind. Walking the bottom of the ocean floor? Conversing with long dead philosophers? Entering a maze cerebral enough to make someone's head explode?

Arthur's so absorbed in his work that he jumps when a greasy takeout bag lands on his desk. He looks up at the open door of his office and blinks at Eames, who is standing, improbably, in front of him. "I thought that was locked."

"It was." Eames pulls out a carton of chicken tikka masala. "Now eat. You skipped lunch."

"Shit, I did." Arthur glances at the clock, which reads three o'clock already. "And I still don't know what Davos wants."

They eat (Arthur discovers he is ravenous) and Eames shows him some paint swatches for the bathroom. It's nice, almost relaxing, and they cap off with kisses that lead to wandering hands that lead to Arthur jerking them both off.

Afterwards, Arthur sags back in his seat while Eames kisses his temple and strokes his hair. "You did wonderfully," Eames murmurs. "Are you ready for your second?"

Arthur's not, really, his dick tingling after orgasm. But he dutifully reaches down until Eames stops him.

"Allow me," Eames says, sinking to his knees between Arthur's legs.

Arthur doesn't know how many blowjobs Eames has given him over the years—triple digits by now, surely--but the sight of that gorgeous mouth near cock will never fail to arouse. "Isn't this cheating?" Arthur gasps as Eames begins to lick, gently.

"I'll tell you when you can touch yourself again," Eames says as he mouths at Arthur's balls. "I want you to paint my face."

Arthur exhales shakily, dick rising to smear precome against Eames' cheek. It feels raw, exposed and oversensitive against Eames' stubble; he holds still despite wanting to flinch away. Eames takes him into his mouth and Arthur shudders, his legs falling wider open. His hips twitch, not sure whether to press in or back.

"Eames, I'm gonna—"

Eames pulls off and takes one of Arthur's hands, wraps it around his cock. Arthur strokes himself shakily, stares at Eames' flushed red mouth, his dark eyes—

There's not much ejaculate after coming two times in one day already, but Arthur's dick still twitches in his hand as he orgasms. Semen lands on Eames' cheeks, the corner of his mouth. He waits until Arthur is finished before surging up for a kiss.

"Beautiful," Eames whispers into Arthur's sweaty ear. "Absolutely beautiful."

Arthur releases his cock and leans in to kiss Eames. He tastes like curry and come. It sounds like a horrible combination and it is, sort of, but Arthur makes out with him anyway.

"Feeling better?" Eames asks as he leans back, brushing the hair from Arthur's forehead.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles, and gently wipes Eames' face clean. He's pretty damn lucky. "Definitely."

Eames sticks around a while longer to discuss work. He has surprisingly little to say about Davos, until Arthur asks him point blank.

"He's your client and you should do what you think best," Eames says, carefully.

"But," Arthur prompts.

"But—" Eames pauses. "I'm beginning to wonder if he's the sort of man who will ever be satisfied. He's a serial entrepreneur even though he has all the money he could ever need. He changes wives like batteries. Will any dream you come up with be enough?"

"Maybe caviar tastes like sawdust in his mouth, but he hired me to create a dream to rock his world," Arthur says, good mood slipping away. "That's the assignment. That's what I have to deliver."

"With no instruction? No hints as to what he might like to see or not?" Eames replies, mouth tightening. "Hardly fair, is it? You can't send someone off into the woods and be upset when they return with something you don't expect."

"He's paying me to run around a forest and come back with truffles. That's what I have to do, fair or not."

"Do you remember the Abramovic brothers? Absolutely mental, and everyone in dreamshare knew it," Eames says, abruptly. "They must have approached every operative in the bloody world at least once with that mad scheme of theirs. And do you remember what you said to them?"

"Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bastards?" Arthur says, not sure where this is going.

"Precisely. Because you realized that working with such a client would simply drive you round the twist with frustration and expectations which could never be met. Thus, you parted ways with them." Eames gives Arthur a pointed look. "Perhaps it's time you parted ways with a more current client."

"Break up with Davos?" Arthur says, something tightening in his chest. "He's paying a shit ton, plus, he could badmouth me to all his rich fucking friends if I back out."

"Refund the money. And who gives a toss about his friends? You want more clients like him?"

"If they're wealthy and sane—"

Eames gives Arthur an unimpressed look. "What sane person would choose to associate with that sort of man?"

"Wealthy people who don't know any better, I don't know!" Arthur throws his hands up and turns, almost wishing Eames hadn't come in to the office in the first place. "He's got a platform. He could sue me. He could destroy NORDA with an army of lawyers."

"Sue you for what? For not devising an impossible dream?" 

Arthur shakes his head. "I know NORDA's a joke and a hobby to you—"

"It's not—"

"But I can't fuck this up." Arthur presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "This is the first time I'm—this isn't Cobb's project. This isn't someone else's company. This is me, mine, and I need to make this work."

"The business won't collapse if you lose one lunatic client—"

"You don't get it." Arthur stares down at the faded scar on the back of his wrist. "I'm not like you. I don't have family estates to go back to. I didn't grow up horseback riding and eating quail."

"Pheasant, actually." Eames sighs when Arthur doesn't crack a smile. "Is that what this is about? You know I'd never allow you to become destitute or live on the streets—"

"I don't need your charity, Eames," Arthur snaps, getting angry though he's not sure why. "This isn't about money. It's about building something of my own. Something to hold on to."

"You have built something. A moderately successful business that's lasted three years with an office and everything." Eames gestures around them. "A business that will survive losing Davos, might I add."

"And what if it doesn't? What if he sues me and—"

"Then we leave and start over. You can build another business anywhere in the world. Darling," Eames takes Arthur's hands in his, "you're the magic behind it all. Everything else is details."

"Ugh," Arthur says. "Why do you have to be so reasonable and supportive?"

"To more effectively torment you." Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I'll leave you to your work. Try not to stay out too late, and do remember to send me a photo after you've had your final wank for today."

Arthur nods, mind already buzzing with everything else he has to do. His dick is oversensitive and tired; the prospect of coming again anytime soon sounds uniquely unappealing.

* * * * *

Hours pass. Arthur fleshes out some proposals for Davos and squints at the computer screen until his eyes cross. His head hurts, his stomach aches, and now he's got to wring another orgasm from his tender dick.

Arthur brings up some porn with a half-hearted hand down his pants. He watches with vague interest as a muscular ginger is spitroasted and finds himself checking his watch more often than he strokes his cock. It's not unpleasantly oversensitive anymore, but it's not exactly enjoyable either.

After about twenty minutes, he stares down at his lap, where he's failed to achieve any sort of erection whatsoever. Jesus.

He skips ahead in the video to the money shot. The redhead comes all over himself with a groan, and he's uncut, like Eames. Normally, this would be the type of thing that would get Arthur off fast. Right now his cock seems mostly indifferent.

He opens up a new video, some gangbang. When that fails to yield results, Arthur skips through several in succession, tries a couple new sites. He brings up a few old favorites, as well, confused and dismayed when even those fail to move the needle.

Desperate, Arthur goes to a deeply buried bookmark for one particular porno. In it, a blond, tattooed man fingers and fucks himself ecstatically with a vibrator. Arthur and Eames watch a fair amount of porn together—critiquing the more absurd moments, using some videos for inspiration (with mixed results). But this is a video Arthur will never share, because the star bears a striking resemblance to Eames and Arthur doesn't think he could ever live down jerking off to porn because it reminds him of someone he's already sleeping with.

But even watching that doesn't work.

After an hour of various videos, fantasizing, and jerking off, Arthur's soft and frustrated. He calls Eames, a last ditch effort to rally at the sound of his voice, maybe. As soon as Eames picks up, Arthur's heart sinks and he knows Eames can't help him.

"Hello, gorgeous," Eames purrs. "Have you come for me yet?"

"Hey." Arthur rubs a hand across his face, roughly. "I've tried. I've been trying for the past hour. I don't think I can—I'm sorry, I—"

Eames' tone changes immediately, "Arthur, there's no need to apologize. Are you still at the office? Are you on your way home?"

Arthur glances at the clock—it's almost eleven PM—and closes his eyes. "I promised you, I said I'd—"

"Nevermind all that, I want you to come home. I would like you here, beside me."

Arthur sags in his chair. "But there's so much to do."

"Nothing that can't keep till tomorrow. How much sleep have you gotten in the past week?"

"Four hours a night? Five?" Arthur scrubs his eyes again, which feel weighted down. "Varies."

"We both know better than anyone the dangers of sleep deprivation," Eames says, voice gentle, kind. "I'm coming round to pick you up in the car. Fifteen minutes."

Arthur stares at his flaccid cock and open pants. A part of him wants to resist, doesn't want to admit defeat, doesn't want to abandon the endless work, doesn't want to return home to a disappointed Eames and an apartment filled with ugly furniture. The rest of him is exhausted. "Okay."

* * * * *

The common areas are as ugly as Arthur remembers.

The bedroom has changed, too, but in a less extreme way. It takes a second for him to pinpoint that the walls have been painted—a light, subtle gray. And there's a carpet on the floor, something plush with a high pile that feels nice against his toes. That's as far as he gets in analysis; Eames pushes him into bed.

"Come here," Arthur says, holding out his arms when Eames steps away.

"One moment." Eames carefully hangs Arthur's suit and disrobes, taking less care with his own clothing. He crawls between the sheets and allows Arthur to ensnare him, thread their arms and legs together. "You did so well for me."

"No," Arthur replies, face buried against Eames' clavicle. "I failed."

"You came for me three times, twice in succession." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I'm pleased."

Arthur closes his eyes, not sure he believes it. "I got barely anything done."

"I'm glad you're here." Eames' voice drops to something quieter, less certain. "Thank you for coming home."

Arthur twists, to look up at Eames' chin, the frozen way he holds his jaw. "Baby?"

"I know how important your work is." Eames' Adam's apple bobs up and down. "But have—have you been avoiding the apartment?"

Arthur breathes in. Tries to think of the right thing to say. Settles, ultimately, on the only thing his exhausted brain can summon: the truth. "Yeah."

"Because you don't like the furniture I've selected?"

"I don't—I don't recognize it, anymore." Arthur can feel Eames tense around him. "But it's your home, too."

"I wanted it to be our home, someplace that we both—" Eames hesitates. "Something which welcomes you after a long day."

"You're—"

"Don't say that I'm all you need when we both know that's patently untrue," Eames says, a spark of humor in his tone.

Arthur huffs. "Fair enough."

"You need to tell me what you want and what you like," Eames says, softly. "I've tried guessing at your taste and failed in a spectacular fashion."

"Will you hate me if I say I don't know what I want?"

"A little," Eames says, and Arthur can't help but laugh. "At this point, I'd settle for a hint. A clue. A muddy footprint in the right direction."

"A wrench in the drawing room with Colonel Mustard," Arthur jokes. It's not particularly funny, but he feels Eames untense, slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm used to building other people's dreams and tastes, not mine. I haven't stopped to think about what I might want in—a long time."

"We can build whatever we'd like," Eames says as Arthur leans up to kiss him. "We can find out together."

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, rolls out of bed, and starts when Eames mumbles something about joining him. "Are you sure, baby?" Arthur asks while Eames stumbles into running shorts. Eames cracks a tremendous yawn and nods as he puts on his sneakers.

They run together (more of a brisk jog, really) along Arthur's shortest route. When they get back to the apartment, Eames tackles Arthur to the bed, muttering, "I forgot how much I love seeing your tight arse in those ridiculous shorts."

Arthur laughs while they kiss, relaxing into it as Eames pulls said shorts down. They fuck like that, Eames easing inside. He guides their hands on Arthur's cock and it's easy to come, with Eames warm and alive surrounding him.

Afterwards, they shower and Eames announces he's going into the office, too.

"But it's not one of your days," Arthur says as he helps lather the shampoo in Eames' hair.

"I know." Eames kisses one of Arthur's soapy palms.

* * * * *

The work is every bit as grueling and tedious as before. Eames' presence in the building does make it better, though, a calming force in the sea of Arthur's mind.

Arthur slogs until noon and orders pizza (the non-sex-metaphor kind) for the whole office. While he's waiting for it to arrive, he sends a bunch of furniture images he likes to Eames, gathered from googling around interior design websites. Tearing himself away from work, however briefly, is a struggle. But Arthur reminds himself that it's worth it—that Eames is worth it.

Late afternoon, Eames comes by Arthur's office to express his happiness over the links and images, says they've been forwarded to Suki for analysis. She'll come up with a plan for the apartment that incorporates both our tastes, Eames explains. She'll make it feel like home for both of us.

Arthur kisses Eames' nose in acknowledgement, but doesn't get his hopes up. Then he jerks off while Eames fingers him, takes him apart slowly with that luscious mouth on Arthur's balls. It's an enjoyable diversion that gets Arthur out of his head for a brief while, at least.

"Thank you for indulging me," Eames whispers as they cuddle together on the couch. It's a somewhat uncomfortable cuddle, the couch not made for two grown men on their sides, but Arthur hangs on anyway.

"I like it," Arthur says, though he's not sure whether Eames is talking about the copious orgasms, the couch cuddling, or transforming their apartment into a secondhand store.

"No, you don't," Eames replies easily, patiently.

"I like making you happy," Arthur says, which is true, at least.

Eames kisses the scar on the back of Arthur's wrist. "You never told me where this came from. Knife fight? Car crash? Bomb shrapnel?"

"The truth's pretty disappointing in comparison to those scenarios," Arthur says. "I got it when I was a teenager. We used to hang out around this abandoned train yard, lighting bonfires and drinking. Got wasted one night and tripped near a railroad spike. Bled all over the damn place."

"Bonfires and drinking were not my first guesses, no." Arthur can hear the smile in Eames' voice. "Wholesome Americana."

Arthur snorts. "Something like that. My mother used to tell me stories about when the town was booming and trains shipping coal would run day and night. I couldn't really imagine. All that was left were abandoned tracks by the time I got there."

"Your mother—" Eames pauses for a beat. "She passed away when you were young, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Arthur says. He wonders if talking about her should bring up bad memories, emotions. But it's like a wound from so long ago he can't remember what it felt like when it hurt anymore. "After she died, I got passed around to all my relatives in that shitty town. They didn't want me, not when they could barely afford to feed their own kids. None of them would wanted to move, either, pack up for somewhere better, with more jobs. I always thought it was stupid to be so attached to a place."

"Especially when places change, and you can't always rely on what worked before," Eames says quietly, stroking Arthur's wrist.

Arthur squints at Eames, wonders if he's doing that thing where he's saying one thing and talking about something else. "Right."

Eames sits up, gazing with such fondness Arthur can hardly believe it's real. "I'll let you get back to work."

* * * * *

When Arthur gets home that evening, there's less of, well, everything. Fewer tchotchkes, fewer table linens, and fewer pieces of furniture. It's still not to the degree that Arthur would prefer, but it feels like he can breathe again.

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, jogs with Eames, and jerks them both off in the shower. They dress and hurry to the office for a meeting with Davos, which goes as poorly as Arthur has come to expect.

Arthur pitches ten of his most inventive ideas and listens to Davos shoot them all down. Eames pitches his five ideas and receives a similar response. At the end of it all, Davos shouts for ten minutes about how they're incompetent idiots out to swindle him until Arthur stands up, opens the conference room door, and invites him to leave.

Davos storms out with several choice insults for them both. 

Arthur instructs his secretary to email Davos a confirmation letter terminating their business relationship and referring him to the Dream Perfumerie, where Xander Cheng might be able to better serve his needs. Arthur then proceeds to walk into his office, sit, and plant his face on the desk.

He's in the midst of panicking over what he's done when Eames lets himself in and says, "I think you did the right thing."

"Or I have doomed my business to bankruptcy and crushing failure," Arthur mumbles, not lifting his head. There's a pen mashed across his cheek.

"We will find other clients." A hand strokes gently down the back of Arthur's neck. "I have it on good authority that we haven't exhausted all the landed gentry of Scotland yet." 

Arthur huffs a laugh. "Thank god for your relatives, I guess."

Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I thought you were very brave."

Arthur straightens, slowly, and slides into Eames' arms. "Let's go home."

* * * * *

The apartment changes, slowly. Suki sits Arthur down with binders full of images for him to look over, takes note of all the things he likes. They continue decluttering the apartment, change the curtains, and swap the tasseled rugs for sleeker, more modern ones. Some of the furniture Eames picked out stays, mostly the stuff he had shipped from Mombasa.

"Every piece has history," Eames says, "a story behind it. That's what I love about them."

Arthur's not sure what's so great about history when it comes to furniture; the past is done, after all, and they're dealing with the present. But he can live with the hunting painting, the coffee table made out of a tree stump, and the other weird crap if it makes Eames happy.

* * * * *

"Thank you," Arthur says as he inserts the PASIV cannula into Eames' arm. "For being understanding. And patient. And shit."

Eames chuckles as he leans back on the chaise lounge. "You're about to send me to the moon for my birthday and you're thanking me?"

"Well, yeah, because—"

Eames covers Arthur's mouth with a hand before he can launch into a full explanation. "I know. And I love you, too."

Arthur stares at the ground after Eames pulls his palm away. "I just worry sometimes. If I do enough or—or spend enough time with you."

Eames' mouth softens. "We're both independent people, you and I. The time apart helps us better appreciate the time together, I think."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, heart rising with hope. "And you'd—you'd tell me if you were unhappy? Unhappy enough to leave?"

"I would and I will," Eames says, quiet and serious. "Did you think I'd—"

"I don't know," Arthur says, words running together in a rush. "I've never lived with someone before and I don't really. Uh. Know what I'm doing."

Eames chuckles as Arthur takes a seat on a recliner and hooks himself up to the PASIV. "Neither do I."

"Right." Arthur looks down at the PASIV, at the lines where they're connected. "I guess we're making it up as we go along."

"I'm rather adaptable." Eames smiles at Arthur. "And you're excellent at improvising."

"Yeah." Arthur smiles back. "And we've got a table to eat at now."

fin


End file.
